


Upon the Lake

by itstonedme



Series: Bardolas series [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not canon.  Follow up to stories that began as standalones: <i>The Bowman and the Prince</i> and <i>Of Elves and Men</i>.  Feedback always appreciated.  First posted on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/97660.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Lake

Legolas was not given to introspection. When it came to acting upon what his senses and intuition fed him, he met the moment decisively and without second thought. It was the warrior's way. Afterwards, he did not weigh what he might have done otherwise, not even to consider if he should have angled his bow more sharply or loosed an arrow faster. He had lived long enough that he had become a hunter, a creature of instinct and purpose.

They circled each other like wolves after that day in the glade, never mentioning what had happened, never acting any differently than they had before. They were courteous to one another, even shared in laughter amidst their labours. But there was a watchfulness that ran beneath the surface, and it came not only from Bard. 

Thus it was that the two passed the days meeting on uneven ground, beings seemingly unmatched in every way but the fellowship of war and reconstruction.

*

"You have always taken me along," Bain said to his father when Bard told the boy he would not be travelling with him across the lake to the far shore.

"I know I have," Bard said kindly, "but the times demand I must not. There may still be danger at large. Legolas will travel with me because I need his eyes and ears and bow. And I need you here with your sisters, to keep them safe and continue the work we have started. I have faith that you will stand for our family with diligence and charity." 

"If it is still so dangerous, then why do you go?" the boy asked. "My concern for your safety is no less than yours for mine."

Bard heard the fear in his son's voice, even though at fifteen years, the boy masked it well. "Do not worry yourself or your sisters. We will be vigilant. My belief is that our enemies have fled back to the caves they crawled out from, whipped and weary and marking time until another opportunity tempts them. I truly suspect we will find they prove no threat in my life time nor yours. We go only to be certain."

*

In the hour before sunset, Tilda, Bard's youngest, stood at Legolas' back as he sat outside her dwelling, honing his steel. Of Bard's three children, she was the one most at home in his company. 

She wove stems of teardrop lilies into his braids, the small white heads all that peeked out amidst the fine flaxen strands. In her imagination, she was preparing him for their wedding day, as little girls as wont to do when they have spied a target for their affections, when their hearts and heads are full of fanciful dreams. 

"Can you read my mind?" she suddenly asked with alarm.

"My ears are not that good," Legolas grinned, eyes upon his long knives. 

At that, she grinned behind his back. 

"But I can feel your smile," he said without turning. 

Taking a long braid in hand, she slapped it against his shoulder and giggled because she could hide nothing from him. With the speed of a viper, he reached back and caught the small hand holding the offending braid, gentle within his large, calloused palm, and drew it forward over his shoulder.

"Is my hair as green as your fingers?" he asked, seeing the stem stains there, turning to inspect the braid they held. 

She gasped because, looking closely, it was. 

"It is of no consequence," he laughed kindly. "It is a pretty green." He drew both braid and fingers to his nose. "And it is a pretty fragrance as well. Lilies with just a hint of Tilda."

The child blushed at the same moment that her father stepped through the doorway of the house onto the boardwalk a few feet away, his pipe and leaf bag in hand. He regarded his young daughter and the warrior prince, the contrast of steel and leather with vulnerable innocence. His brows rose at the floral bedecking that linked them together, and his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"I would quake on the battlefield at the sight of you," he laughed.

Legolas stopped to kiss the tiny hand within his own before letting it go. "And well you should, for adornment only disguises the sting of my retribution." 

Bard stooped to kiss his daughter's head before sending her inside to prepare for bed. When he and Legolas were alone, he filled his pipe and tamped it, leaning against the wall. "Bain is not happy that he cannot accompany us." 

"If you wish to bring him, bring him. He is of a man's age. Let him join us."

"His place is here," Bard replied. "You and I will travel alone."

Legolas nodded once, considered much, and said nothing.

*

Fog hung over the wharf-side houses at dawn, the sun rising red as it sought to burn through it. The waters were still, the neighbourhood quiet save for the sounds of noisome dogs deep within Laketown. 

The children had risen and dressed to see their father and Legolas on their way. Bain crouched at the pier, loosing the knot securing the boat at its berth as elf and man took up the long poles to push off. "Look for our return within three days," Bard told him. The boy threw the tie lines on board and stood back without a word, his hand raised in farewell. 

They departed in silence. The water was shallow within the canals, and their poles sank into the silt as they poled past the dwellings. Neighbours and townsfolk were waking to the day, coming out onto the wharves as the boat slid past. The presence of both man and elf caused heads to turn and eyes to watch, the occasional hand lifted in greeting. Although Legolas had been among the townspeople for nearly a season and they had come to hold him with great admiration, his partnership with their leader had only served to elevate Bard more. 

Soon the barge was out on the lake, a soft breeze riffling the waves as the morning mist was chased away. They headed south, staying with the shoreline for several miles before Bard stowed his long pole and stood at the boom, unfastening the sail ties so that he could hoist the sheet up the main through roughly fashioned pulleys and tackle. Once the wind began to bite, Legolas put aside his pole to take the tiller, and between them, they angled the bow out towards open water. 

By now, the sun was well clear of the horizon. They steered toward the far shore several leagues distant, the grasses of the plains – pale green and ash – dancing in waves beneath the warming air. 

"What hear you?" Bard asked.

Legolas turned his eyes from the hundreds of miles of grasslands and squinted into the sunlight as he scanned the cloudless sky. "Everything and nothing," he replied pleasantly. "Tell me. What cave vermin do you expect we might find on this journey?"

Bard regarded the elf silently. "None," he finally replied, "if fortune is with us."

Legolas turned to him with a placid smile. "Yes. With fortune, we may discover that we are alone in this venture."

Bard was wary of the mockery he sensed in his friend's observation. "You suspect my motives were other than I have given?"

Legolas kept smiling as he approached him. "Forgive me. I do not. I play with you to wile the time, that is all." He swept his arm across the horizon, following it with his gaze. "During day's light, I trust we will see and hear nothing but the creatures of the air. Once night falls, we will abide here and look for firelight. My thoughts are that we will find nothing. The Uruk-hai who once walked these plains are now far travelled, the troubles of recent times having driven them to seek opportunity elsewhere. Laketown and the barren vestige it has become holds nothing of gain."

Bard nodded in agreement. "We must be certain," he said, "that none have lingered to steal the little wealth we have left." 

"We must," Legolas replied, gazing afar.

*

They stowed the sail once they arrived at the lake's midpoint and dropped anchor. They supped on dried meat and raw roots, Legolas content to share his lembas, which Bard had grown to enjoy, finding it strengthening. The waves gently lapped at the sides of the boat where it turned lazily in the approaching twilight. When night at last fell, Bard once more pulled on the coat that he had shed in the day's heat. As the stars passed overhead, they stood watch, eyes intent upon Mirkwood to the south, Erebor to the north and the plains capped by the Iron Hills stretching far to the east. 

"What see you?" Bard eventually whispered, for the mirrored glass of the lake's surface would otherwise carry their voices far.

"Nothing," Legolas replied softly. "Only a faint glow at Erebor where the dwarves toil."

They stood for hours more, surveying the lands, stars rising on one side and disappearing on the other until Bard's eyes grew heavy. He unrolled a heavy blanket onto the deck next to a storage crate and lay upon it, his leather pouch beneath his head.

He watched Legolas, who stood with his back to him, pale in the starlight, vigilant and still. Presently, Bard nodded off, awakening every so often to see that Legolas had not moved. Hours passed, and when Bard awakened next, Legolas had dropped to one knee, head bowed. During this brief time before he slipped into sleep once again, Bard pondered at how the elf restored himself in ways that a man could not. When he awakened next, it was to find the elf's cloak covering his body, but Legolas was no longer at the stern. Bard turned back the cloak and made to raise himself on one elbow.

"Sleep," he heard uttered low from the bow of the boat. "There are hours yet, and we are well alone." 

And so he slept.

*

They broke their fast with the dawn and raised sail for the far shore to the south. There, they secured the boat amidst the reeds and took to the land, their passage concealed within the high grasses, looking for trodden pathways, of which they found none. 

"I hear nothing, I see nothing and I smell nothing," Legolas said at one point, "apart from the foulness of your breath from the pipeweed." He ripped a stalk growing low near the ground. "Here, eat this."

Bard grinned as he took it from him. "Hand me more," he said, breaking off several leaves to chew, "for that will not be the last of the pipeweed on this journey."

By late afternoon, they had returned to the boat and turned it north, sailing once more to mid-lake where they set the anchor and stowed the sail. "We will search the northeast shore tomorrow before making for home," Bard said.

Legolas walked to the stern of the boat and stared out at the water before suddenly removing his weapons and placing them on the deck. Quickly, he shed his clothes, tunic and leggings joining the quiver and long bow. He placed one foot atop the gunwale and dove straight and true into the lake. After several moments, he surfaced further out, hair sleek and glistening platinum in the sunlight, and he turned towards Bard, who had come to the rail to look for him.

"Would you join me?" Legolas called out.

"No," Bard replied. "I would be chilled upon reboarding."

"There are many more hours of sun to warm you," Legolas replied. "Come. It is a freedom too prized to pass on."

Bard stripped and dove, and when his head broke the surface, his mouth was filled with curses. "You might have warned of its cold!" he called out, but Legolas only laughed and sank back beneath the waves. 

When they had climbed back deckside, Bard grabbed his blanket to wrap about himself, scrubbing at his hair so that it might dry more quickly and not rob the heat from his body. "It is too early in the year to be swimming," he said. "You misled me with your invitation." But his face betrayed the mirth within him.

Legolas laughed, running his hands along his chest and thighs to sweep away the water. "Within the forest, there is little opportunity to enjoy the river. Too many concerns demand we remain armed and ready." He turned on his heel towards the lake, arms outstretched. "Long Lake is always dreamed of within the realm. I had no choice but to enjoy it." 

When they supped once more an hour later, Bard was clothed in his many layers while Legolas sat across from him, legs folded towards his lap, his clothing still stacked nearby upon his weapons, his pale nakedness a wonder and a distraction. 

"I do not understand how you do not feel the coolness in the wind," Bard said, passing him a strip of dried venison.

"I tell myself to feel only the warmth of the sun," Legolas replied, accepting the offered meat, "and the warmth of the sun is all I feel." 

"Is it like that with everything?" Bard asked.

"Yes," Legolas replied. "I tell myself to feel only the surface of the snow so that I might walk on it. To feel only the rough footholds and pathways of tree bark so that I might run on it. To hear the heartbeat of a game creature or an enemy so that I might aim for it."

Bard shook his head at the wonder of it. "Still, there must be something more elvish in your mastery that prevents men from accomplishing the like."

Legolas smiled somewhat sadly. "There is. I have hundreds of your lifetimes in which to practice and learn."

Bard's eyes came up to meet the elf's, and he nodded in understanding.

*

By nightfall, they once more stood vigil, Legolas now clothed, their eyes and ears scanning the distances. But there was less urgency to the task, less concern. Bard again placed his bedding and reclined upon it, but sleep was not so pressing, and in the quiet, he watched Legolas at the boat's stern. 

Time passed before the elf turned towards him. "You cannot sleep," he said.

"It will come," Bard replied. 

Legolas nodded and walked past him to the bow of the boat, and Bard lay staring at the night sky, contemplating the day and what he had learned. He would miss Legolas when the elf chose to return to his kind. He had not known until Legolas had stood beside him on that terrible night of Smaug's devastation that the presence of a brave and true heart could cause his own conviction to run with such fortitude. The community of men had left such a need wanting, and Bard had put aside the knowledge of ever feeling its aid. Truly, Legolas would be missed, but he would also leave Bard valiant in his absence.

Amidst these thoughts, Legolas appeared silently, standing at his side, and Bard, looking up, took in all the glowing nakedness of the elf who looked down at him. Legolas' eyes glittered in the starlight, focussed and sharp. He stepped over Bard, his feet each side of the bowman's thighs, and lowered himself until he had knelt and seated himself on them. 

Bard watched him closely, breath caught within his chest.

Reaching forward, Legolas unfastened Bard's coat and shirt, laying them open before untying the bowman's leggings and rucking them downwards. When he closed his hand around Bard's slumbering member, Bard marvelled at its warmth even he gasped at its calloused roughness. 

Legolas watched him and knew. He released him gently and took to hand his own cock. Bard's eyes were drawn to watch. With each stroke, the elf's cock grew until it rose firm and tall, impressive in its proportion, the dark, satin head jutting from its cowl. Presently, Legolas stilled his hand and a volume of his essence spilled from the head over his fingers. He drew his palm up the shaft to collect it and once more took Bard in hand.

Bard arched at the slick silken warmth. "Is that another skill learned over a hundred lifetimes?" he uttered feverishly, for the pressure of the elf's hand was now like wet velvet. Legolas smiled and said nothing.

Bard grew to hardness more quickly than had happened since he was a callow youth, and the intensity of his erection was as remembered of that time. Legolas could feel it within his palm, and began to press and shape Bard in ways that caused the urgency to ebb but the intensity to grow. The bowman drew his hands to Legolas' thighs, squeezing, his neck arching while his eyes stayed fixed on the intense gaze levelled in return.

With suddenness, Legolas released him, and Bard moaned brokenly at both the loss and the relief. Rising onto his knees, Legolas told him, "Hold yourself upright to receive me." 

Bard took himself in hand as Legolas kneeled forward. When Legolas seated himself, he did so directly onto the cock made ready, a descent so swift that Bard's only reply was to close his eyes and grunt.

There they remained, locked as one. For Bard, it was as if a pale angel were impaled upon him, radiant within the ink of night, motionless save for the movement within Legolas' body that thrummed around the erection that pierced him. 

Legolas leaned forward, his lips hovering over Bard's. "You smell of mint," he smiled. "It is good."

"Taste it," Bard urged, and Legolas slid his hand beneath the bowman's neck and drew him to his lips.

The fire that burned deep within Bard rushed down to his groin in a moment of exquisite fulfillment. It had been far too long buried, this desire for union with another. When he emptied, he did so writhing in waves of release, soft cries on his lips. He opened his eyes to see Legolas motionless above him, ever watchful, ever vigilant, ever the Prince of Mirkwood.

"Legolas," Bard pleaded. "Do not leave me again to spill without matching in kind. It is too much to bear."

Without a word, Legolas curled forward, his long fine hair cascading onto Bard's bare chest, and he drew his head from side to side, sweeping the skin with the gossamer strands, such that Bard wished to bury his fingers within it even though he did not. 

Then, in a slow and graceful ascent, Legolas sat up and flung his head back, arms thrown wide and his face to the night sky. As his hair, silver in the starlight, settled over his shoulders and draped over his arms, it seemed as if he'd grown feathered wings, so much so that for one otherworldly moment, Bard believed that he was buried within the most magnificent of lake swans. 

With the briefest of sighs and arched towards the heavens, Legolas came, not in earnest bursts such as had beset Bard but in rivulets of seed that pulsed thickly down his shaft and testicles and onto Bard's pelvis. It smelled of musk and dew and the sweetness of grain, and to Bard, it was richly intoxicating. 

Bard reached up and placed his hand over Legolas' heart so that he might know how it was for an elf.

Legolas looked down, covering the hand with his own. He collected Bard's other hand and drew the palm to his neck. "It is the same," he said to the unspoken query, the anvil of Bard's hands meeting the hammer of the elf's heart.

They remained that way until Bard had fully softened. Then Legolas released his hands. "May I?" he asked, reaching for the cloth tied at Bard's neck and with the nod received, unknotted it. He pushed from his haunches so that he might stand.

"Stay," Bard uttered, his hand closing on Legolas' arm, for he could not bear to lose the comfort of another at this moment.

"I will not leave you, good friend," Legolas replied. "I only go to attend to our cleanliness."

He went to the gunwale and knelt, dipping the neck cloth into the water, returning to wipe Bard and himself. Rinsing the cloth once more, he tied it to the sail line and reached for his clothing, dressing quickly. He took up his weapons and carried them to where Bard lay watching, stowing them within reach beyond Bard's head. Then he tucked himself between the deck crate and the bowman, back to the crate's side and gathered Bard's head onto his lap.

"You may sleep now," he told Bard as he unfurled his cloak over the bowman. "I will stay with you this night."

Bard closed his eyes and turned away so that Legolas was at his back, present and constant and alert.


End file.
